Flash Point
by psquare
Summary: "He is constantly spinning at the edges of chaos, waiting for that one moment where he loses control and his carefully constructed life comes crumbling down around him." aka: Lieutenant Matthew Casey's anger issues.


_**A/N**__**:**_ First _Chicago Fire_ fic, yay! This one's an attempt to get into Matt Casey's (very pretty) head, and, uh, well, has no other point, really.

**Warnings: **SPOILERS for everything aired, including 1.06: _Rear-view Mirror_. Lots and lots of swearing (this is a new personal record for me, really), some violence, present-tense, metaphor-abuse.

Hallie/Casey, Dawson/Casey, with Severide/Casey if you squint. I pretty much 'ship Casey with everybody on the show except Shay, so.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Chicago Fire_ or any of its characters.

_**Flash Point**_

_This is how it begins._

_Casey stares at the gun at his feet, then back at Voight, at the smug look on his face, and feels a surge of black rage so all-consuming that he's literally choking on it. His hands clench and unclench convulsively as he imagines what it would be like to pick up the gun, pull the trigger, paint the floor with Voight's brains—_

_Would it feel like retribution? Like justice?_

_Like freedom?_

* * *

When Matthew Casey gets promoted to Lieutenant, he doesn't wait a moment in calling Darden and Severide to the nearest bar and getting fucking _wasted_.

He's halfway through his third glass of whiskey when he leans forward and whispers, almost conspiratorially, "I'm going to propose tomorrow night."

Severide blinks like he hasn't a clue what Casey's saying, but Darden, lightweight motherfucker that he is, slurs, "Hey, that's—Hallie's—that's _awesome_, man," tries to slap Casey on the back, misses, and almost upends his whiskey glass instead. "It's gonna be fant—fantas—_awesome_, trust me."

Casey laughs—that he's trusted Darden is the reason he's gotten this far at all. Andy's the romantic among them, the one that married young, with two little kids that Casey loves like his own. He's never been terribly ambitious, but he lives and loves with a ferocity that Casey's always been secretly in awe of. How many times has he seen Andy and Heather and Joey and Max and thought _why not why not why not_—

"It's only been three months since you started dating," Severide tells him wryly. "Don't think you're taking this a little too fast?"

"So says the guy whose idea of a relationship is sleeping with the same girl two nights in a row," Casey shoots back easily, but inside he's bristling. Fucking Kelly and his ability to hit Casey's weak spots without even really trying.

Darden laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard, slapping the table hard enough to rattle the glasses, and already people are turning to stare at them.

"Okay, big guy, I think it's time we got going," Severide mutters, taking Darden by the elbow and steering him to his feet. Casey pays for the drinks and moves to join them when somebody bumps into him from behind, spilling beer all over his shirt. The guy apologises immediately, palms up, but Casey's defences are dulled by alcohol, and the slow simmer at the pit of his stomach flashes behind his eyes, white-hot.

Before he's even really aware of what he's doing (_oh but he's __**aware**__, isn't he? he's perfectly aware_), he punches the guy across the jaw. The guy goes sprawling, beer spilling everywhere, clutching at his face. The next thing Casey knows, there are hands all over him, and Severide's voice in his ear, saying, "—the _fuck_, man, let's just get out of here—"

"No," Casey says without even really knowing _why_; just that he's shaking with a need to—to _do_ something. It thrums along his nerves, tautening his muscles, twisting his gut until all he wants, _all he wants_—

"Fuck that," Severide says, and pushes Casey firmly out the door with a hand on his back. The rage leaves him just as abruptly as it came as he stands there blinking in the sunshine. Darden's staring at him like he can't quite decide between glee and fear, while Severide's just plain furious.

"What the hell where you _thinking_?" Severide yells. "Oh, I worked my butt off to get promoted, so let me ruin it that _very day_ by getting into a goddamn _bar fight_?"

The sudden lack of anger is disorienting by itself; Casey feels giddy and overwhelmed with a strange urge to laugh. "That's my line," he says.

Severide frowns. "What?"

"That's my line," Casey repeats. "I'm the responsible one, remember?"

Severide looks at him strangely—with a mixture of pity and concern and fear and something Casey can't quite place. "Coulda fooled me," he says quietly, before turning away.

Casey watches him call a cab, while his touch burns between his shoulder blades like a brand.

* * *

Casey's always liked a certain balance and symmetry to his life; he's a firefighter on one hand and a builder on the other—he's seen both destruction and creation. (When he's idle, he likes to pretend there's something profound, something life-affirming about that.) He likes the peace he finds in a job as physically and mentally demanding as his—it gives him routine, _structure, _and very little room for uncertainty and grey areas.

He knows just how delicate that order is—knows that one misstep is all it takes for everything to go awry. He is constantly spinning at the edges of chaos, waiting for that _one moment_ where he loses control and his carefully constructed life comes crumbling down around him. It's like walking tightrope on a gossamer-thin strand; he clings to his job and clings to Hallie and the distant promise of family and togetherness, and hopes he doesn't fall.

Then Darden dies.

He can't sleep for a week after that—he spends his nights curled up in bed, the image of Andy's charred, nigh-unrecognisable body imprinted on the backs of his eyelids; choking on the smell of smoke that hangs over him like a pall, no matter how many times he showers—

(_and he fucking deserves it, doesn't he, because he should've gone in, not andy, not andy, god—_)

Some nights Hallie's there, trying to provide him the comfort she isn't sure how to give and he doesn't know how to ask for. The nightmares, the sick churning in his gut isn't only because he just lost one of his best friends—it's also _fear_. Fear of losing everything that Darden represented; that Andy's perfect little bubble of happiness meant absolutely nothing in the face of pure, dumb chance.

Hallie doesn't quite share his fear—she _understands_ it, of course (she always does), but she doesn't get the anxiety that's eating away at him from the inside. They've spent months talking endlessly about the difficulties of juggling demanding careers with raising a family, only to go in circles over and over again and Casey just _can't_—he doesn't want to wait indefinitely for the life he'd always dreamed of with Hallie—not when anything can happen any time and—

(_he'll fall, with no end in sight_)

"I think I should leave," Hallie tells him finally. "Things are—tough, right now, and I think it's better if we... took a break. From each other. To figure things out."

A part of Casey wants to feel bitter—isn't it just like her, to run away until things simmer down, till the danger's past—but her eyes are soft and she strokes his cheek with that warm, sure touch, and Casey can't help but hope that she's right.

"I love you," he tells her. She smiles, says, "I need to get back to work," and leaves.

Casey jumps back into work with more enthusiasm than ever before. The unwritten rule of the station is that you leave your personal shit at the door, and despite the tense gloom in between calls, the professionalism of the station is comforting.

Of course, that's if Casey doesn't count Severide.

Severide's bitter, closed-off, angry—and Casey's baffled, because that's _not_ him. He gets the grief, the guilt—but Severide knows that Casey's just as much to blame. He tries to talk to Severide about it, but Kelly only sneers at him. "You're such a self-absorbed asshole, you know that?" he says and stalks away, chewing on his cigar.

Casey watches him leave, bewildered, and is about to ask Darden what the hell got into him before he catches himself.

That evening after shift, he goes home and punches his pillows until the floor is covered with the mattress' stuffing, the bedframe's broken, and he's exhausted. He drags himself to the sofa and sleeps without dreaming for the first time in over a week.

* * *

Truth is, Casey was seriously considering leaving out the fact that Voight's son was drunk—the last thing he wants is to get on the bad side of a cop. It isn't until he learns from Hallie that the kid they rescued ended up paralysed that he makes his decision to include that in his report. Much later, he'd ask himself just how subjective his sense of justice is, but right now? That slow-simmering ache in his stomach is back, and this time, he has no need to hide his anger. It's righteous, it's justified.

Or it _should _be, anyway—but this time, the anger carries with it a distinct sense of unease. This could mean putting everything he's worked so hard for (_worked so hard to build_) at risk. Even Dawson, with her big, sad eyes, her quiet competence, and her inexplicable, unwavering confidence in him, is unable to erase that doubt.

Then Voight arrives, and every last bit of hesitation is lost in a cleansing swell of righteous ire. The anger is liberating as much as it is frightening—even more so when Voight resorts to bribery and threats.

He's got Hallie, the Chief and the entire station behind him. He can't lose.

* * *

Casey doesn't quite know why he keeps going back to Dawson.

He tells himself it's because he needs her brother; that she's in a position to understand his situation better than anybody else in the station or outside. But when she looks up at him, strong and determined and earnest (_and beautiful_), he can't help but think about how it would feel to kiss her—if it would be different from what he has with Hallie—if he allowed himself to descend into a different kind of chaos, where his relationships weren't as fragile as spun glass—

"You need to tell Hallie about this," Dawson says.

Casey shakes himself back into reality, feeling jittery and ashamed and out-of-control, as if he were unravelling at the edges. "Yeah," he tells her. "I guess I do."

He leaves before he can think or do anything more.

* * *

Casey's side still hurts—a dull ache that throbs in time with the cut on his face. He tightens his grip around the crowbar and watches Voight carefully, waiting for the moment when he can get the asshole alone and give back as good as he got, and more.

When he heard about Voight threatening Hallie, and Antonio's attempt at getting a snitch failed, Casey simply—let go. He hadn't known what was going to happen, but he certainly hadn't expected the cold, centred calm that overcame him. There were no more doubts. Suddenly, _why_ this whole thing started didn't matter; all that mattered was bashing that motherfucker's face in.

And so here he is, stalking Voight, all that rage compressed into an ice-cold kernel in the pit of his stomach. Hallie's called several times already, but he doesn't bother answering—he doesn't want to explain; doesn't think he _can_ explain.

The familiar rumble of a car brings him out of his focus on Voight. It's the Chief, and Casey knows immediately that he can't do anything tonight. He hands the crowbar over without (much) protest, but isn't terribly worried.

He just needs to get his timing right next time.

* * *

Casey wonders if _this_ is the chaos he was so afraid of—feeling raw, exposed, excruciatingly sensitive to the slightest provocation.

Everybody has gone from support to worry—the Chief, in his own, brusque manner; members of his Truck; Dawson; even Severide, who's switched from barely-concealed hostility to something of his old self. He offers Casey a safer way to vent, and while Casey appreciates the gesture (more than he can say, because Kelly still fucking knows him the best), he's still intent on dealing with this on his own.

Then Voight plants drugs in his house and he and Hallie nearly go to jail and Hallie's literally going to pieces in front of him and—

—Casey's had enough.

He welcomes the chaos, embraces it like an old friend. He snatches the keys and leaves to confront Voight one last time.

* * *

_Casey's mind is spinning. He looks around the living room, if only to give himself a distraction—sees family photos, a smiling Voight with his wife and his son, and suddenly feels horribly, desperately hollow, like the anger's burnt itself out and left him a shell of who he was._

_Voight's still looking at him expectantly. Casey shakes his head and leaves, jittery and nauseated (_and so very, very scared_). He settles in his car, takes a few deep breaths. He needs to—he can. He __**will**__ get himself back in control, back on the tightrope._

_When his hands finally stop shaking, he starts the car, and tries not to think about the fact that, for a moment, he'd sought peace in murder._

_This is how it begins._

_**Finis**_


End file.
